


Steady, Aim--

by Amand_r



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M, Gen, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 17:35:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's got the braces down and the shirt unbuttoned and kicked his discarded shoes under his desk for the next morning when he realises that something is behind him in the room, and then something very familiar makes contact with his skull, and he pauses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steady, Aim--

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink meme prompt: "Gwen/Jack; she pays him back for turning her on during gun training"

It's late and he's tired as fuck, mostly because that group of alien smugglers had made him run from one place to another, fetching bits and bobs or they'd blow Tosh's brains out. He likes Tosh's brains where they are, so he and Gwen and Ianto had been playing with GPS all day, trying to track down "a bucket of chyme" and "three burnt fishsticks" while Owen had traced Tosh's mobile and shot all three of the aliens in the head.

Everyone's gone home, Owen's administered a healthy dose of sedatives to Tosh and carted her back to his for a night on the sofa (if he has any class he'll take the sofa) and Gwen and Ianto have disappeared, and he's all alone. He's exhausted. Sure, he'd told Gwen last week that he didn't sleep, but that had been a little bit of truth and a lot of exaggeration. Just the thought of a warm shower and a long lie-in for the next four hours makes him want to fall down on the spot, but well, anything worth having is worth waiting for, or so he tells himself when he watches Ianto's ass in those trousers make its way across the Hub.

He's got the braces down and the shirt unbuttoned and kicked his discarded shoes under his desk for the next morning when he realises that something is behind him in the room, and then something very familiar makes contact with his skull, and he pauses.

"Don't move," says a soft voice. Gwen. Doesn't even bother do disguise it, but she's not disguising the barrel of the gun she's got pressed to the back of his head, either, so this could be any number of things.

It's obviously not a stick up.

"Gwen" he says, leaning back into the barrel of the gun. She's not going to shoot him, but then again, this isn't safety 101.

She cocks the hammer, which is pointless, but a nice aural gesture. "I've been thinking about our training last week."

"Have you?" He smiles, even if she can't see it, she'll hear it. "I hope it was useful."

"Mmmm." One hand snakes to his front, laying itself flat on his belly. "Was it here? Lower?" The hand follows the suggestion so that it's just below his belt, warm and small on his front. "You position all your employees that way? Or just the ladies?" The hand inches down to cover the lump of his hard cock. Always ready for action in danger or sex, that one. The palm grinds into it, and the cloth of trousers and shorts is a frustrating barrier.

He remembers that he's supposed to be saying something. Gwen isn't going to shoot him, he knows that, even as he's aware that this is something she'd only ever bring herself to do since she knows about his immortality. If she didn't know, she'd never imagine holding a gun to his head. Not for this.

"Just you," he lies, and he has the tapes to screw himself, locked on a secure server, his wriststrap, actually, but he doesn't think further on that because her hand finally unflattens and curves around his cock, pressing so that she can feel it jump for her a little, grinding so hard that she could pull the foreskin around a little even through the cloth.

The gun trails down the back of his neck and into the collar, making a little crescent from one side of his neck to the other before slipping over the lip of his collar and down between his shoulder blades. Gwen's voice is hoarse and he's having trouble breathing because he wants to come in her hand, in her cunt, in her mouth. He senses that none of those things is going to happen here.

"I'm not yours, Jack," Gwen says, her fringe tickling the shell of his ear as she stands on her tiptoes to whisper. It's a precarious position, the tiptoes. He could turn right now and catch her off balance, thrust his hand in her jeans and bring them both, while that barrel imprints itself on his chest, his forehead, his temple. She'd let him, maybe, she'd curse him out and come on his fingers until they were coated, and then he'd suck them off, maybe wipe them on the barrel of her gun and suck that off. She'd like that.

"I know," he says to her and to his own inner porno. But this time he's telling the truth outside and lying inside, and Gwen's gun leaves his body; now that it's not flush with his flesh, he's worried even more what it might do, now that his skin can't pinpoint its location exactly.

Gwen's hand leaves his cock and travels up his chest to his throat and jaw, and he knows that she's stabilising his neck so that he can't look back at her. All this is planned; they're facing the one wall in his office that isn't reflective. "And I never will be," she finishes for him. He wants to see her eyes, so that he can see what she's hiding, what she's really trying to say, what she doesn't want to say to him so much that she uses a firearm to say it for her. He closes his eyes, because maybe he can hear it in the darkness.

But her hand rounds his throat and slips off, his sense of her nearness recedes and by the time he's brought himself to open his eyes and turn, just a little, to see his reflection in the glass to his left, she's not there.

He can still feel the bruise of her point on the back of his head.

END


End file.
